


Everyday Is Entirely Unlike Sunday

by moonriverdrifter



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 21:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonriverdrifter/pseuds/moonriverdrifter
Summary: Hilda's humdrum Sunday takes a turn for the interesting. Oneshot.Written for the "Caught in the act" prompt at Together As Sisters





	Everyday Is Entirely Unlike Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Written and edited on my phone all in one go so it's probably not very good. Also, I tried to write fluff and it became angst because I am hopeless and want the Sisters Spellman to suffer for my art.
> 
> Title credit: The Smiths, "Everyday Is Like Sunday"

The Sunday afternoon is lazy, for everyone but Hilda. It isn't that she minds doing laundry. There's solace in the repetition of it, rinse, spin, dry, fluff, load after load. And she's always adored the fragrance of fabric softener.

What chafes is that she is the only person in the house who keeps up with it. Sabrina or Ambrose will do the odd load, but they usually end up pouring in too much soap or leaving wet clothes overnight to mildew. Zelda gives not a thought to how her garments end up cleaned and pressed.

Hilda hums to herself as she wrestles with a fitted sheet, something cheerful to keep her teeth from clenching. The sheet is obstinate, will not be folded, and eventually she admits defeat. It is deposited, loose, into the wicker basket, pillowcases and blankets tossed unceremoniously on top. They are going straight onto Zelda's bed, anyway.

She hefts the basket, emerges from the covered porch where the washer and dryer reside. Horror-movie sounds emanate from the sitting room, bitter reminder of the relationship that never was with a former spookshow host turned paperback purveyor. Not for them, the happily-ever-after of Hilda's novels. She tries very hard to pretend that her niece and nephew's drifting laughter as they pelt each other with popcorn is an adequate substitute for what might have been.

"Oi!" Hilda says sharply, shifting the laundry basket to glare at her charges from the archway, "I hope you're planning on cleaning all that up."

Ambrose pauses with a handful of popcorn poised above his cousin's white-blonde head.

"Yes, Auntie Hilda," both chorus.

"Marvelous," Hilda mutters to no one in particular, continuing toward the stairs, numbering with each step all of the reasons that this house would fall apart were she not in it. Sabrina not entirely reared up just yet. Ambrose still mostly housebound and restless. Zelda too good to sully her petal-soft hands with housework. All of them most likely gone and scattered in just a few short years, and then where will she be? Hilda halts on the second floor landing, mulling it over.

Her knock on Zelda's door is answered by a familiar drawl, a lazy invective to come in. She does, is greeted by the sight of her sister, fresh-bathed and not yet dressed. White satin slip, vestal-virgin skin. Sacred. 

Hilda's heart does not beat until her sister's voice kicks it into a frenzy.

"Yes, Hilda?"

"Fresh sheets," the younger woman explains. 

Zelda nods, goes to her bed and begins stripping the old ones.

"Hand them over," she orders, once the bare mattress is exposed.

Hilda usually makes all the beds in the house. It had never even occurred to her that Zelda might know how to do it. The younger woman's mental equation of Zelda plus bed never tallies up to anything so domestic.

Nevertheless, she does as she's told. It's habit born of fear. Zelda's hands are deft and competent as she stretches out the fitted sheet, tucks it in, and Hilda tries not to stare at her sister's barely-dressed form. She distracts herself by plucking a pillow off the floor, sliding it into a case, tossing it lazily to Zelda.

It hits the older witch square in the chest, and Hilda's mouth is frozen in an O of shock, her stomach dropping down between her knees. She had thought Zelda was paying attention, thought she would catch it, and oh, Satan, what has she done? She braces herself against the certain onslaught, clenches her fists until nails are shredding palms.

Hilda is met not with a knitting needle through her skull, nor a push through the open window. Instead, there is only a quick burst of pressure against her chest, and then something thumping delicately to the floor. The pillow that she thought would be her undoing lies harmlessly at her feet, and when she turns perplexed eyes on her sister, there is something in her expression that Hilda almost remembers.

She is thrown back to this very room, two centuries ago. Mattress groaning beneath little girl feet, small hands clasped around smaller ones, red-gold curls bouncing as Zelda flew up then came back down, pulling Hilda after her.

Exhilaration. Bliss. Can they have it again? Hilda resolves to try. The worst that can happen is nothing she's not prepared for.

She bends to pick up the pillow, advances on her sister, who barely has time to grab a weapon of her own before Hilda attacks. Her pillow connects with Zelda's side, landing with a dull smack. She parries by getting Hilda right in the belly and then, with characteristic ruthlessness, refusing to relent, whapping her again in the shoulder.

"Not fair!" Hilda exclaims, delivering a blow to Zelda's abdomen.

"Love and war, sister mine," replies Zelda, aiming for Hilda's legs and missing as the younger witch sidesteps. When Hilda hits her sister in the arm, and then again at her hip, Zelda does the most amazing thing. She throws her head back, and her moody-magenta mouth erupts laughter, the full, genuine kind that shakes her shoulders and jiggles the small accumulation of tummy paunch that age put on her and even Zelda couldn't fend off.

Hilda marvels at the sound, held in her sister's thrall, and Zelda, still giggling, takes full advantage. She lunges, and her fingers slide right into the floral fabric beneath Hilda's ribs, reaching through for the spot that she remembers with uncanny clarity, though it's been decades since she's put that knowledge to use.

The younger witch squeals, high-pitched and breathless, as Zelda unleashes the greatest of torments. 

"Zelda! No!"

Heedless, Zelda continues the assault, and Hilda's knees buckle as Zelda's other hand comes to rest at the place where shoulder meets neck. They fall together onto the half made bed, Hilda dissolving in raucous laughter as she tries to shake the older witch off.

"Say it, Hilda!"

"No!"

They roll together, older sister torturing, younger struggling, creaking springs and sheets straining away from mattress corners.

"Come on now; just say it and I'll stop."

"Oh, bloody hell!" Hilda cries, and then, in resignation and in between pained giggles: "O great...great Queen Zelda, please...please have mercy upon me!"

"Certainly." The attack stops, and Zelda flips onto her back next to her sister.

As they mutually work to catch their breath, Hilda wonders what's gotten into the older woman. She isn't about to complain about not being killed, but Zelda is never like this. They used to play all the time as children, of course, and even when they were older girls, Zelda would sometimes get into a mood and initiate an impromptu game of tag, or suggest they go climb a tree together. Her bouts of wanting to sport with Hilda had been as unpredictable as every other facet of her temperament, but Hilda learned in single digits to take what Zelda offered, when it was offered, and use those good memories to get her through the rest of it.

When she turns to face her sister, Hilda realizes that Zelda has been staring at her all the while, watching her as she puzzled through the sudden vivacious turn of Zelda's mood. Thank Satan that she is the mind reader and not Zelda. If the older woman could have read her just then, she would probably...

Hilda does not get the opportunity to ponder what Zelda probably would have done. Before she can run through an inventory of possible murder weapons in her mind, Zelda is close, maddeningly close. She is awe-inspiring, fading sunlight through the naked window setting her hair alight, red-radiant and so bright Hilda expects to be burned all up.

She is, instead, merely scorched as the older woman's lips meet hers. It's a short kiss, closed-mouth, but the fleeting press of Zelda's mouth is all-encompassing. It's the first adolescent blush, first taste of carnality, first youthful _everything_. It's drunken nights in Moscow and coming home from London after so very long, so much yearning. It's _come closer_ , _oh Satan yes_ ; it's _don't leave me_ and the shutting of so many doors, memories that ignite Hilda.

She does not allow her sister to pull away. No, not this time; Zelda doesn't get to just _do_ this. Arrogant bitch, thinking she can just draw Hilda in, wrap her up in those lovely, devious arms and make her feel so wonderful, so _bloody_ amazing, and then be miles away again in the morning. Never for good, never for ever, just once or twice a decade, enough to plant the _maybe_ in Hilda's brain, enough to ensure she'll stay here in this house, revolving around Zelda, waiting, praying.

Fuck. That.

She fists Zelda's hair, is rough pulling her down, and her kisses are ruthless. Lips are bitten, tongue sucked into Hilda's mouth, fingers dug into hips and bruises left on neck, throat, sternum. Hilda sinks her teeth into her sister's shoulder, and Zelda moans her name. The sting turns to a throb and Zelda gasps, is about to lash out and show her little sister who is really in charge here when an exclamation from the doorway freezes them both.

Heads turn in tandem, and Sabrina is squirming as she looks on, cheeks red as red can be. She is unable to meet either aunt's eyes as she stammers, "Uhh...Ambrose and I thought...maybe...umm...maybe we could order a pizza for dinner?"

She doesn't allow her aunts time to answer before she's off down the hallway, leaving a strained "Think about it!" in her wake.

"Satan's hoof," Hilda says, bowing up to push her sister off of her. Zelda relents, and Hilda is up from the bed, off to follow her niece and tell her...well, something. She pauses at the door, turns around, almost runs back at the sight of Zelda flushes and disheveled on the bed.

"This isn't over," she says.

"Of course not," Zelda replies as the younger woman disappears down the hall, "It's never over."


End file.
